Hellsing Headcanons
by MillieBee
Summary: A small collections of mini-fics exploring Integra, Alucard and Seras's personalities. "Integra thinks Alucard speaks in an American accent just to piss her off and, to some extent, she's right." Gen, each 1000w
1. Familiar Voices

Integra thinks he speaks in an American accent just to piss her off and, to some extent, she's right. She knows that he can speak a dozen languages and imitate any dialect he pleases, so if he's speaking in an American accent is because he wants to, and he knows it gets on her tits because she's English and, really, most American things will get on her tits.

What she doesn't realise, however, is that his accent is really something of a tradition. She thinks he might have done it to annoy her ancestors, which is also almost true, but she never really considered what an American accent meant to the very first Hellsings; back when there was only one L in their name and Alucard's name was written backwards.

Alucard _likes_ Integra – in fact, he'd go as far as to say that she's his favourite Hellsing so far – but that doesn't mean that he liked _all_ of his keepers. In fact, he rather despised his first: the bastard who locked him up in spells and restrictions and made him a pet. He despised him enough to remind him every day of the fact that the Hellsing Organisation had not won _every_ battle against the forces of the night; that one or two of its earliest members had given their lives to the enemy.

An American accent wound Integra up a treat, but to hear the voice of poor lost Quincey Morris out of the lips of the monster that killed him… well, it had broken Hellsing Number One into pieces.


	2. Reasoning

Sir Integra Fairbrook Wingates Hellsing smoked cigars for two reasons, and was a virgin for one.

Firstly, the cigars reminded her of her father, who had smoked the same brand. She might have felt guilty about the expense, except that every time she tasted the bitterness on her tongue it was like her father was standing next to her, instead of the monster he'd left behind for her bodyguard. It was a comfort, and everyone was allowed their small comforts. If she had to deal with a storm of ghouls, a psychopathic vampire and her own weight in paperwork every week, she was going to have her God damned cigars.

Secondly, she liked the looks she got when people saw her light up.

She was still a reasonably young woman; heading towards her middle-age but certainly not old enough to have started smoking before people knew about the health dangers. She was upper class and well educated. She'd spent her youth at a private school learning to ride ponies and wearing skirts at least as long as her knees, not being peer-pressured to smoke by children trying to look like the parents they hated.

The looks of confusion (and occasionally faint disgust) from her peers when she took a drag from her expensive cigars gave her a small reminder. She could read their minds through their faces, and knew that every one of them was thinking,

_Doesn't she _know_ those things will kill her?_

She did know. She knew as soon as she picked the tube of tobacco out of its tin. She knew, and it reminded her that someday – maybe someday soon – she was going to die.

She spent too much time fighting immortals, alongside the greatest immortal of them all, and sometimes she began to feel as though she might live forever herself. She'd killed enough monsters that claimed they could never die: perhaps she was the biggest and scariest monster of them all. The great Alucard was at her beck and call. If he was only the servant then, well… how powerful must the master be?

And then she smoked her cigar and saw their faces and she knew how powerful she was: not at all.

If Alucard were to light up a cigarette no one would even blink. He _was_ immortal. He had already been old when she was born but he would outlive her and everyone she knew. But this tiny thing – these little burning leaves breathed into her lungs – was enough to kill her. Slowly and painfully, her cigars would be the death of her, and she smoked them purely to remember that.

However, this little reminder of her mortality came with another feeling: one decidedly more human and, to Integra, unforgivably weak.

_I don't want to die…_

She barely allowed herself to think of it, and certainly never admitted it to Alucard. She couldn't bear the thought of his smug, sharp grin and the laughter that would ring through the halls of the Hellsing house. She would not bring such shame upon her ancestors, not while she still had breath.

But when she had no breath anymore…

Integra's virginity was no secret. She let people know as though it didn't matter to her; as if the people she rolled around in the sheets with (or didn't, as the case was) were not a private matter but one she'd discuss as happily as the colour of her shirts.

_Let them see me as a shining white tower of purity, _she thought, although she had too much blood on her hands to really give a crap about purity anymore. _Let them think I never found a man I thought worthy of me. Let them call me uptight and old fashioned. Let them say I wear a chastity belt to bed each night. Let them call me anything but afraid._

Integra was scared to die, and even more scared of death's exit clause, but that wasn't going to stop her from using it when there was no more breath in her lungs. She liked to think that she'd be braver than that: that she'd die proudly with her humanity intact, but she wasn't sure that she wouldn't just let Alucard laugh at her before he swept down and bit her neck.


	3. Mimicry

'You have a most unusual accent, if you don't mind my saying,' Walter said one evening when he brought a just-waking Seras her blood bag.

'Err… yeah,' Seras said. It wasn't the first time it'd been mentioned to her, although it was the first time since she'd joined the Hellsing Organisation. 'I'm a bit of an accent mimic. I picked it up from all my families.'

'Families: plural?' Walter said, arranging the blood bag neatly on the table beside a clean white bowl and spoon. He knew she liked to keep this one human ritual. Sucking out of a plastic bag was downright disgusting. If she was going to drink blood, she was going to do it in a civilised manner. She was, as Integra had said, still English after all.

'My parents died when I was little,' Seras said. She sounded robotic. This was obviously something she'd had to tell a lot of people over her lifetime, and something she tried to tell them without thinking about what the words meant. 'I had a lot of foster families; mostly in London. I was a… err… "problem child".'

The eyebrow that was not holding Walter's monocle to his face rose.

'Surely not,' he said with a hint of mockery. 'Our sweet little Seras, a problem child?'

'I used to get into fights with the other children a lot,' she said, face going almost as red as her breakfast on the table.

'Alucard would approve…' Walter muttered. Seras didn't seem to hear him; her eyes had turned up to the ceiling as she recalled her awkward childhood of shifting from house to house.

'One family was American,' she said cheerfully. 'They'd moved to London from Washington D.C. I liked that family.'

'That does explain your accent,' Walter mused, 'but do try not to sound American in front of Sir Integra. It irritates her something awful.'

Seras turned large, confused eyes on the butler.

'Alucard has an American accent,' she said.

'My point exactly.'


End file.
